I Would Do Anything For Love But I Won't Do That
by Nedjmet
Summary: Oneshot loosely based on the 'closet' scene from Chapter 72 of 'A Father's Promise'. Not necessary to read that to understand. Just a random bit of ECness based on a Meat Loaf music video. NB this is not a songfic.


**Author's Note: By way of apology for the frustratingly long delay on 'A Father's Promise', I give you a oneshot. Same characters, setting etc. This is based on the music video for Meat Loaf's 'I would do anything for love, (but I won't do that)' as my rather unimaginative title suggests. No idea what the general consensus is about Meat Loaf or his music, but I personally think that video is incredible, and I do like the song as well. Truth be told, that video was my inspiration for AFP (well, after POTO of course), so I hope you like this.**

**For anyone reading this who has also been reading 'A Father's Promise', my apologies for the delay, this last section is a total pain and I keep getting stuck, but I've done this now, so hopefully the creative juices are flowing. Rest assured, the guilt will be eating away at me until it's done. For anyone reading this who hasn't read 'A Father's Promise' or even heard of it: forgive the ramblings of this authoress. And for anyone reading this - seriously, just anyone reading this, this time - apologies for any typos. I was going to check through it, but I'm too tired and it's longer than I thought it would be, so I'll check it later. If there's anything seriously glaring, feel free to let me know. Enough ramblings from me though, so thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy! Nedjmet.**

* * *

The sun bathed the garden in its rays, making everything shine with a warm glow. The small fountain hidden away within the trees sent water shooting and dancing into the light. In truth, the garden could hardly be called a garden, seeing as it remained unclear, even to those who knew it, where it ended and the forest began. Not that many ever dared enter either. Yet that was of little matter to the figure dancing along the paths and around the fountain, delighting in the delicate sprays that reached her whenever she got too close. Though there was no music to be heard; to the one set of eyes privileged to see such a carefree yet graceful display, the accompaniment was as clear as if a full orchestra were in attendance. 

The amber eyes watched her, drinking in every move, every gesture; their depths glowing softly in a delight so rich it seemed somehow unearthly. Perhaps because those eyes beheld what their owner knew could only be an angel. The young woman clothed in her delicate white rehearsal gown truly did look ethereal, the light making her face look even more radiant in the ecstasy she felt as she gave herself up to the moment. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in gentle waves, floating about her like a halo as she leapt and span in the familiar steps. And when her eyes opened, they shone with a joy so pure it made the heart of her mysterious watcher ache. She truly was a creature of the light, and so he consigned himself once more to merely watching over her from the shadows.

* * *

She could feel his eyes on her. Having been kept under his gaze for so long, it felt wrong somehow if he wasn't there. She was supposed to have been resting, seeing as the company had just completed a production only last night; but when she had woken, the day had been so glorious; she had been unable to resist it. And oddly, she had woken with a strange sense of anticipation, a restlessness that had filled her as though something . . . whatever it was . . . it had meant her feet had not been able to stay still. Though she had not been a dancer for months – her teacher had seen to that – the old steps came back to her with as much ease as if she had danced them only last night. In spite of the winter's chill on her lightly clad frame, she had not stayed indoors long; the energy of the dance warmed her quickly enough.

Her teacher.

What was he thinking of her dancing about in the cold? Would there be a lecture coming, a harsh reprimand for such careless behaviour, such reckless jeopardy of her voice? Or would he finally admit to having watched her so often, finally tell her why? He had been watching over her for months now, so long it felt strange recalling a time when he hadn't been there; the shadow in the background, that tingling sensation she felt which meant his eyes were on her yet again. There was something so familiar about him now that the very thought of his presence comforted her when she was alone – the few times it seemed he ever allowed her to be.

After all their lessons in her dressing room – well, she in her dressing room, he . . . wherever he was – when he had finally consented to let her reveal her voice to the world, show them the wonders of music that he alone could inspire within her, she had been overjoyed. In consenting to reveal her voice, he had given her hope that he would reveal himself as well. But it had not been until the second production where she had been permitted to triumph that her request had been granted. That night had been so wonderful. Her every hope had been confirmed, her every prayer granted: her Angel was real, oh so real; and yet how could such perfection be anything more than a dream? She soon found out when she had tried to take his mask. Though she had failed, she doubted his reaction could have been any more extreme had she actually removed the sculpted piece of white leather.

Since then, even with his assurances, she had made every effort to try and get their strange relationship back on whatever track it had been on. In the beginning, when he had first broken the silence, he had been authoritative, abrupt and cool whenever he spoke to her. Those habits had never really gone away – especially when he was instructing her – but they had softened, and he had become almost . . . tender. When they had resumed her lessons after she had seen his home, she had thought he had returned to his old manner. It had actually taken a rare moment of clumsiness on his part for her to realise how awkward he felt around her now, how shy he was being . . . how timid. After that revelation, every lesson of theirs, every moment she felt his presence, she had tried to do or say something that might make him less . . . timid. Whether it was working or not, she couldn't tell; though his manner had again softened, that could be attributed to the passage of time. Still, he was watching her more than he used to.

A flash of light in the trees caused her to stop. There! The shadows moved, no, one of the shadows moved. Running over to what had caught her attention, she saw a delicate chain caught on one of the bushes. Hanging on the silvery rinks was not a pendant, but a ring, exquisitely and ornately designed. Had he left it for her? Had it been deliberate? Slipping it around her neck – only so that she didn't lose or break it, of course – she hurried after the retreating shadow that she could still see darting in and out of the trees, ignoring the rain that had started to fall.

* * *

How could he have been so foolish! Racing haphazardly through the depths of the trees as was his habit whenever he risked exposure, he berated himself over and over for having allowed her to see him. She had been so tempting, dancing as though she were reaching out for something . . . to someone. Perhaps it had been the way the light had caught her all of a sudden, making her look as though she were dancing down from heaven itself, perhaps it had been the culmination of her innocently seductive movements, or perhaps she had simply proved too tempting, too inviting for too long: whatever it was, in that moment of weakness which she had inspired, he had reached out to her in return; acting on the ridiculous presumption that she could be reaching out to him.

He had forgotten about his gift. Whenever he saw her, whenever she tempted him, he would reach for the necklace, knowing that if he simply bided his time, he might dare to hope she would agree to wear it. After the way he had treated her down in his lair, he knew it would be a long time before she would agree to wear the ring on her finger, but to have her agree . . . to grant him that hope . . . it was the one thing that had granted him patience. Her visit to him had changed her, he saw it each time he looked upon her. He feared it had tainted the sweet innocence that made her . . .

_Christine_

But no, she could not have behaved as she had this day, not given herself over to such sweet pleasure without being innocent still. That was why he fled. She was a creature of light; he, irrevocably, of darkness. What would she think if she found his gift? Would she laugh at his vain hope, or would he finally truly succeed in scaring her away. The visit, being seen, the necklace: reaching the house, he couldn't help but think that it was all for nought.

Sat in his chair before the fire, he heard the rain falling, and so he waited, hoping she would not stay out there any longer. He wasn't blind to the way she behaved: it was as though she had suddenly realised just how beautiful she was, how attractive in the eyes of others. And she was making the most of it. No doubt for that ridiculous patron his opera had insisted on accepting. The boy was rich, _attractive_ (he thought with no small amount of distaste), and his interest in her was clear. And it would seem that his efforts to dissuade the boy from pursuing her had only heightened his zeal.

He started. Was that . . .?

She'd followed him. So it hadn't been his imagination. Rising quickly, he disappeared into the shadows as she entered the house. Watching her from the floor above, he could see she was searching for something. Many times she had tried to seek him out, steered their conversations towards seeing him again. Did she truly desire to see him? No. He couldn't. He had frightened her. She had run from him after Buquet. True, they had reconciled somewhat, but he couldn't risk jeopardising things again. She'd only run.

She disappeared from his sight. Usually she would come up the stairs. Falling back into the familiar habit, he followed her. He froze as he found her.

* * *

Why did he keep running from her? Looking around, as usual she found no sign of him, no sign of his . . . the fire was going. Heading back to it, she allowed it to dry her off a little, thoughts of her Angel in her mind. His was the only voice that could keep her out of the darkness fire inevitably pulled her into. As her mind became more agreeably occupied, she could feel him there . . . he had been there . . .

Turning, her eyes fell on his chair. The house had already been furnished when she moved in, but that one chair just felt so . . . him. Once she realised who the house belonged to, and who her Angel was, it had seemed so right. That was probably why she never sat in it. Running her hands along the back, she caught traces of his scent. He _had_ been here! Giving in to the temptation, she broke her own rule and curled up in his chair, her head resting on the arm, wishing it were his instead. Much as she enjoyed the games they played – well, that she played – she couldn't stand feeling as though she was on the brink of something, as though he was holding her back when all he spoke of was bringing her into the light.

Drinking in the last of his scent, she rose and retreated to her room, feeling his absence once more.

* * *

He watched her as she rested. When he had become so lost to her, he didn't know; just that he could no longer go a day without this. He didn't know if it was the knowledge that she was well, or the pleasure of being near without her fleeing in fear or revulsion, but his obsession would not go unsated without first driving him mad.

Or perhaps she would succeed in that first.

Giving in to the temptation, he broke his own rule and brushed one of her silken locks aside; to ease her breathing of course, not to savour the feel of her hair. He shouldn't have done that. She felt his presence, had done so before; and now she slept fitfully, no doubt because she felt him standing near. Turning away from his rose, the old feelings of self-loathing flooded him anew.

Heading to the other side of the house, he put as much distance between them as he could – short of leaving, which wasn't an option – that he might think clearly. Usually he was so collected, clear in his goals, determined with a fixed purpose. There was no end to this that he could see, save his own madness. She would not be here forever; she was destined for greatness; he had ensured that. The world would be at her feet and she would have no more need of a demon. And there would be no life for him with her gone; he had ensured that too. Once more he would be consigned to the shadows, haunting his domain, casting fear into the hearts of the masses. But could he be content with that, having been granted the light, having lived, having inspired beauty and hope? Was it possible that he could go from being an 'Angel' back to being a monster? Turning back to where his rose lay, he saw a rare sight. There were mirrors hanging along the hall, and reflected in all of them . . .

His hands lifted to the white leather, his shield from the world, from reality, from the truth that . . .

No! She would never know the monster! He would _not_ lose her to that!!

Lashing out, he shattered the glass in each mirror, removing the truth from her grasp, hopelessly wishing that the truth could be so easily eradicated. Freezing in his tracks, his ears pricked as he heard a different crashing. Looking down to the ground floor, he saw them. So, they had decided on another hunt. As they wished. They wanted a ghost, then they would have the Phantom. He was destined to be a monster, so they could appreciate the demon they so fecklessly hunted.

Tearing down the hallway, he did not hear the door opening.

* * *

She had been trying to sleep, the day – or more likely, the year – catching up with her. But rest had been even more elusive than her strange Angel. Until she felt him watching her again. A few times, she had woken to feel him standing over her. At first she had been disturbed, but that soon given way to the odd but familiar comfort he inspired. She hadn't been expecting him to touch her – he had barely been that bold even within his home – and had instantly regretted her reaction. As ever, she was of two minds about reaching out to him, letting him know she was aware of his presence, that it was not unwelcome, but was too afraid that he would shut himself away again or worse: react as he had that night in his home. So she lay still.

When she heard the breaking glass, she knew she'd made the wrong decision – and not just about hanging the mirrors in a house so obviously devoid of them. She saw the flash of a very familiar black cape and went after him, pausing only as she heard the voices and footsteps that had undoubtedly caused his flight. Losing sight of him, she ducked into an empty room, trying to avoid being seen by the intruders. That they weren't the typical hunters swiftly became clear – she had heard too many police conversations to make the mistake. Though she had every faith in her Angel, she knew he really was in danger this time – and no doubt he wasn't the only one. How was she supposed to find a ghost who was probably making every effort to confuse his would-be captors?

Hearing the screams, she knew where to look.

Running down the stairs, she was ignored as several of the men tended to their comrade. Edging along the stairwell, she vainly sought out the door that was hidden. When she saw the white scrap of leather on the floor, she realised what had made the officer cry out. Seconds later the wall at her back disappeared and she was pulled into the darkness.

Her instinct was to panic and struggle, but she soon stilled as a familiar voice whispered her name into her ear. Held firmly in his iron grip, his cloak wrapped around her with his arms made her realise how cold she had become in her nightgown and without thinking, she nestled into the warmth further. This only caused the embrace of her Angel to tighten.

At length, the sounds of the trespassers disappeared, leaving only silence and a sense of violation in their wake. Christine's hold on her Angel had yet to lessen, not that his had either.

"You should go." Neither moved. He spoke again. "Christine?"

"No." She answered quietly, but firmly.

"You need your rest."

"I'm not going."

"You wish to stay in a dark tunnel all night?" he asked, incredulous. Since his hold on her meant that she couldn't turn, she contented herself with nestling her head in the crook of his arm as she answered.

"If I don't, you'll disappear again." She wasn't playing fair, and both of them knew it. The only question remained: would it work?

"You know I am always with you." He answered, his voice thickening slightly.

"Are you?"

"Christine-"

"Angel, let me see you." His hold stiffened almost to the point of suffocating her. With a tightened voice, he replied.

"Christine, I would do anything for you, but I won't do that."

"What are you afraid of?" It was the turn of her voice to thicken.

"You have heard the stories. They do not lie. I will not inflict the truth on you. An angel should never have to face a demon." Lowering his head, he whispered into her left ear. "Once you have seen me, you cannot ever be free." Raising her hand, she caressed that side of his face, catching both of them by surprise with her boldness.

"I know."

Taking advantage of his lowered guard, she turned and faced her Angel for the first time.

* * *

With a terror-filled cry, he awoke, desperately looking around, his eyes searching out his surroundings, seeking assurance that it had all been a dream.

"Angel?"

The small hand on his back returned him to reality. Looking to the side, he saw its owner, gazing at him in worry.

"All is well, my rose. It was just another dream."

Gently, she pushed him back down onto the red pillows, and propping herself up on her elbow, she examined him to be sure he had calmed.

"What was it this time?"

"The night you became mine." She arched an eyebrow as though wondering how that could have given him nightmares.

"You have no idea how many times I dreamt of you seeing me, realising that I am no angel, not even a man. I have been called 'monster' and 'demon' so many times, but little filled me with fear as imagining those words coming from your lips." Christine closed her eyes as his hand ran over the very lips he was speaking of.

"You feared losing me." It wasn't a question, and he didn't need to reply.

"I still doubt how willingly you gave yourself up to me."

Christine smiled indulgently, glad that she finally had a chance to say it.

"You told me that once I saw you, I could never be free. You were wrong. I was lost the moment you said my name, and I knew it when I first heard you sing. And when you first brought me here, I knew I didn't want to be free." Silencing the protestations she knew were coming, she kissed him: the marred side of his face first, then the left, her lips finally coming to rest on his mouth where they stayed – just as on the night they had both finally given in.

"Much as I would love to continue this, my dear, you have a rehearsal to attend. The opera awaits their star." Christine frowned at the man below her, using the pout they both knew he could never resist. Caressing his face with her left hand, he once more felt the slender metal band that miraculously graced one of her fingers.

"Much as I would love to obey you, my husband, we both know you can cover a week's worth of rehearsals in a day," lowering her head she grinned wickedly as she whispered into his ear, "which by my calculations gives us plenty of time."

"For what?" He arched an eyebrow in innocence, loving this side of her.

"For you to love your wife."

Rolling her over, he looked down at the beauty before him, still unable to believe any of this was real.

"Eternity will never hold enough time for that, my love." He whispered fervently before capturing her lips once more.


End file.
